marycrawford (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
marycrawford) wrote2004-02-06 06:45 pm
marycrawford) wrote2004-02-06 06:45 pm
WIP Amnesty Day - what a great idea!
I love all the WIP Amnesty Day posts, so here's my contribution. [ETA: Crossposted to the new ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
wip_amnesty community!]
I never wrote more for this story than the introductory scene, so it's very short, yet manages to include some badly written angst and some dubious historical references.
Embarrassed but unbowed, I hereby inflict on you:
Stasis
"I'm telling you, Iolaus, I'm not going to an Aischylos play ever again," Hercules groused, bending a particularly thorny branch aside and waiting for Iolaus to grab hold of it before letting go.
"Aw, c'mon, Herc. It was pretty good." Iolaus let the branch spring back behind him and quickened his step to keep up with Hercules, who was forging ahead along the narrow and overgrown path.
Hercules set his jaw. "It was depressing."
Iolaus looked up at him impishly. "And the fact that it said 'A deeply moving tragedy by Athens' best playwright' on the playbill didn't tip you off?"
"I never saw the playbill. You used it to fan the woman sitting next to you. Remember?"
Iolaus grinned, remembering. "She said she felt faint. Strangely enough, that was just after Alkibiades made his first entrance."
Hercules grumbled something, stomping through the undergrowth with all the subtlety of a battering ram. Iolaus followed him, having failed yet again to lift Hercules' spirits. He sighed, thinking about The Myrmidons, the play they'd seen on their last day in Athens.
The famous actor Alkibiades played Achilles, and he definitely had the body for it, even if his face remained hidden beneath the traditional mask. Iolaus ogled the man unashamedly, knowing that at least three quarters of the people in the amphitheatre were doing the same.
But while Iolaus divided his attention between the lead, the red-haired woman sitting next to him and the play itself, Hercules sat as still as a statue, gaze fixed to the scene below. As it turned out, the play didn't focus as much on the deeds of the Myrmidon army as on the story of Achilles and Patroklos. The play opened with proud Achilles sulking in his tent, while Patroklos secretly took his armor to lead the army in his name. In the second act, the chorus sang of the heroic death of Patroklos before the walls of Troy. And in the third act, a hush fell over the theatre as a sleepless Achilles was visited in the dead of night by Patroklos's ghost, who stretched out ghostly arms to him and begged to be buried next to his beloved. At that point, Iolaus dared one quick look at Hercules and saw him grip the edge of his stone seat so hard that it crumbled away in his hand.
While Iolaus was trying to shake that image, he noticed that the path was growing even more narrow.
"Hey, do you think we should have gone north after all?" he called out to Hercules, thinking that an argument might shake his friend out of his gloomy mood just as well as a joke. "This path doesn't look as though it's been travelled recently."
Hercules didn't even pause in his stride. "Yes, you said so about ten minutes ago. And I said that that didn't prove anything, because this part of the country has been pretty inaccessible in the last couple of months, what with the flood and that marauding giant and all. And I seem to remember that you agreed with me."
Iolaus rolled his eyes and simultaneously ducked beneath an overhanging briar. "Well, I've changed my mind."
Hercules snorted. "Iolaus, if this isn't the path to Lepkos, I'll-"
Iolaus looked up just in time to see the ground beneath Hercules' feet give way.
"Herc!"
"Stay back, Iolaus!" With that, Hercules smashed through the forest floor and dropped out of Iolaus' view as swiftly as a stone thrown into a pond.
Iolaus didn't even waste his breath on a curse. He looked swiftly round - no ambushers leaping from the trees, no other traps in evidence - and then focused back on the traphole. The thud came four heartbeats later, and he breathed in a huge lungful of air in relief. Not too bad a drop. Not for Hercules, at least. But what was at the bottom? He stifled the maddening urge to run and crept closer to the ragged, leaf-edged hole in the ground, testing his footing with every step. Whatever lay at the bottom of the hole, it wouldn't do either of them any good if he fell in too.
"Herc! You all right?"
Silence. Iolaus' breath rasped through his dry throat.
"Herc, can you hear me?"
Nothing. He dropped on his belly and crawled forward like a salamander, testing every inch of the ground with his outspread hands and sheathed sword before putting more weight upon it. It held, and he managed to crawl right up to the edge of the hole. He craned his neck over the edge, holding tightly to a protruding treeroot, and looked down. He could see nothing but darkness. Iolaus drew a deep breath and yelled "Hercules!" at the top of his lungs. The sound echoed faintly, but there was no other response.
Don't panic, Iolaus, he told himself. He's knocked out from the fall, that's all. You just have to get down there and wake him up.
Of course, this was easier said than done. While the scream-and-leap approach held a certain attraction, Iolaus knew that he couldn't risk it. And anyway, it isn't as much fun when Herc isn't looking. He got up on his knees cautiously, then stood up. The ground held him. He ripped down several thin creepers, twisted them together into a makeshift rope and tied them to the trunk of a nearby tree with a careful knot, then dropped into the dark.
The air felt cool and damp on his skin as he lowered himself hand over hand. He'd judged right; the rope was long enough that his feet touched ground before he came to the end of it. Good, he told himself reassuringly. And no sharpened sticks at the bottom, that's good too. He called Hercules again, in vain, and had to force himself to wait, to let his eyes adjust to the darkness.
Dim, shadowy shapes began to distinguish themselves in the limited light from the hole above. Iolaus saw what looked like stalactites and rock formations, and tried to find one that could be human rather than stone. There, to his left - a long, broad shape, lying next to a pillar of rock. Dropping all caution, he ran toward the familiar form and fell to his knees, calling his name again.
Hercules lay on his side, his face away from Iolaus. His eyes were closed, his face relaxed. Iolaus bent over him, feeling for the big vein in the neck and waiting, heart in his mouth, for the familiar beat beneath his thumb. Nothing.
Hurriedly he removed Hercules' left gauntlet and felt for his wrist instead. I can't see what I'm doing, that's the problem, he told himself, but it was a lie and he knew it. Iolaus' vision had adjusted enough by now that he could see Hercules quite clearly in the gloom, and in any case he could have mapped his friend's body from memory. While he waited for a pulse he checked for wounds, for broken bones, but there were none. Not even a bump on his head from the fall.
The rest of his world had vanished, leaving only the small patch of bare rock he knelt on, the damp air he breathed, and Hercules' unmoving hand in his. His own harsh breathing sounded loud in his ears. He squeezed Hercules' wrist until he felt the bones move against each other, but still he could feel no pulse.
Despairing, Iolaus threw himself onto Hercules' still form. Hercules still felt as warm as he had on all the cold nights when Iolaus had shared his blankets, but Iolaus couldn't hear his heart beat and the broad chest under his cheek did not move at all. Remembering one of Cheiron's lessons, he knelt beside his friend again and gently tipped his head back, then sealed his mouth with his own in a desperate kiss, breathing for both of them until his lungs screamed for air.
When Iolaus finally sat up, black spots swam in front of his eyes and he swayed from side to side. Almost he let the blackness take him; it would be so easy to give in, to lie down beside his heart's brother and hope never to wake again into a world that now held only pain. But Hercules had never given up on him so easily. He would not shame that trust, so he took deep breaths instead until the faint passed.
:covers her face in embarrassment after rereading that last paragraph:
Where this story was going: The vaguely formed idea for this story was that Hercules had stumbled into (or been directed toward) a pocket time bubble - a place where time moves very very slowly, and that a god can use to keeps things that he doesn't want to have rot away or turn to dust over the centuries. Iolaus has to find out what's going on and how to get Hercules out of his slow-time state.
Why I stopped: I abandoned it after I was doing further plot notes and realized that I really didn't want to do a story in which Hercules spends the entire time playing corpsicle. I have much more fun with the guys when they're both in the story.
I like the bickering, though, and I may lift that to use in another story. Bickering always amuses me. *g*
wip_amnesty community!]I never wrote more for this story than the introductory scene, so it's very short, yet manages to include some badly written angst and some dubious historical references.
Embarrassed but unbowed, I hereby inflict on you:
Stasis
"I'm telling you, Iolaus, I'm not going to an Aischylos play ever again," Hercules groused, bending a particularly thorny branch aside and waiting for Iolaus to grab hold of it before letting go.
"Aw, c'mon, Herc. It was pretty good." Iolaus let the branch spring back behind him and quickened his step to keep up with Hercules, who was forging ahead along the narrow and overgrown path.
Hercules set his jaw. "It was depressing."
Iolaus looked up at him impishly. "And the fact that it said 'A deeply moving tragedy by Athens' best playwright' on the playbill didn't tip you off?"
"I never saw the playbill. You used it to fan the woman sitting next to you. Remember?"
Iolaus grinned, remembering. "She said she felt faint. Strangely enough, that was just after Alkibiades made his first entrance."
Hercules grumbled something, stomping through the undergrowth with all the subtlety of a battering ram. Iolaus followed him, having failed yet again to lift Hercules' spirits. He sighed, thinking about The Myrmidons, the play they'd seen on their last day in Athens.
The famous actor Alkibiades played Achilles, and he definitely had the body for it, even if his face remained hidden beneath the traditional mask. Iolaus ogled the man unashamedly, knowing that at least three quarters of the people in the amphitheatre were doing the same.
But while Iolaus divided his attention between the lead, the red-haired woman sitting next to him and the play itself, Hercules sat as still as a statue, gaze fixed to the scene below. As it turned out, the play didn't focus as much on the deeds of the Myrmidon army as on the story of Achilles and Patroklos. The play opened with proud Achilles sulking in his tent, while Patroklos secretly took his armor to lead the army in his name. In the second act, the chorus sang of the heroic death of Patroklos before the walls of Troy. And in the third act, a hush fell over the theatre as a sleepless Achilles was visited in the dead of night by Patroklos's ghost, who stretched out ghostly arms to him and begged to be buried next to his beloved. At that point, Iolaus dared one quick look at Hercules and saw him grip the edge of his stone seat so hard that it crumbled away in his hand.
While Iolaus was trying to shake that image, he noticed that the path was growing even more narrow.
"Hey, do you think we should have gone north after all?" he called out to Hercules, thinking that an argument might shake his friend out of his gloomy mood just as well as a joke. "This path doesn't look as though it's been travelled recently."
Hercules didn't even pause in his stride. "Yes, you said so about ten minutes ago. And I said that that didn't prove anything, because this part of the country has been pretty inaccessible in the last couple of months, what with the flood and that marauding giant and all. And I seem to remember that you agreed with me."
Iolaus rolled his eyes and simultaneously ducked beneath an overhanging briar. "Well, I've changed my mind."
Hercules snorted. "Iolaus, if this isn't the path to Lepkos, I'll-"
Iolaus looked up just in time to see the ground beneath Hercules' feet give way.
"Herc!"
"Stay back, Iolaus!" With that, Hercules smashed through the forest floor and dropped out of Iolaus' view as swiftly as a stone thrown into a pond.
Iolaus didn't even waste his breath on a curse. He looked swiftly round - no ambushers leaping from the trees, no other traps in evidence - and then focused back on the traphole. The thud came four heartbeats later, and he breathed in a huge lungful of air in relief. Not too bad a drop. Not for Hercules, at least. But what was at the bottom? He stifled the maddening urge to run and crept closer to the ragged, leaf-edged hole in the ground, testing his footing with every step. Whatever lay at the bottom of the hole, it wouldn't do either of them any good if he fell in too.
"Herc! You all right?"
Silence. Iolaus' breath rasped through his dry throat.
"Herc, can you hear me?"
Nothing. He dropped on his belly and crawled forward like a salamander, testing every inch of the ground with his outspread hands and sheathed sword before putting more weight upon it. It held, and he managed to crawl right up to the edge of the hole. He craned his neck over the edge, holding tightly to a protruding treeroot, and looked down. He could see nothing but darkness. Iolaus drew a deep breath and yelled "Hercules!" at the top of his lungs. The sound echoed faintly, but there was no other response.
Don't panic, Iolaus, he told himself. He's knocked out from the fall, that's all. You just have to get down there and wake him up.
Of course, this was easier said than done. While the scream-and-leap approach held a certain attraction, Iolaus knew that he couldn't risk it. And anyway, it isn't as much fun when Herc isn't looking. He got up on his knees cautiously, then stood up. The ground held him. He ripped down several thin creepers, twisted them together into a makeshift rope and tied them to the trunk of a nearby tree with a careful knot, then dropped into the dark.
The air felt cool and damp on his skin as he lowered himself hand over hand. He'd judged right; the rope was long enough that his feet touched ground before he came to the end of it. Good, he told himself reassuringly. And no sharpened sticks at the bottom, that's good too. He called Hercules again, in vain, and had to force himself to wait, to let his eyes adjust to the darkness.
Dim, shadowy shapes began to distinguish themselves in the limited light from the hole above. Iolaus saw what looked like stalactites and rock formations, and tried to find one that could be human rather than stone. There, to his left - a long, broad shape, lying next to a pillar of rock. Dropping all caution, he ran toward the familiar form and fell to his knees, calling his name again.
Hercules lay on his side, his face away from Iolaus. His eyes were closed, his face relaxed. Iolaus bent over him, feeling for the big vein in the neck and waiting, heart in his mouth, for the familiar beat beneath his thumb. Nothing.
Hurriedly he removed Hercules' left gauntlet and felt for his wrist instead. I can't see what I'm doing, that's the problem, he told himself, but it was a lie and he knew it. Iolaus' vision had adjusted enough by now that he could see Hercules quite clearly in the gloom, and in any case he could have mapped his friend's body from memory. While he waited for a pulse he checked for wounds, for broken bones, but there were none. Not even a bump on his head from the fall.
The rest of his world had vanished, leaving only the small patch of bare rock he knelt on, the damp air he breathed, and Hercules' unmoving hand in his. His own harsh breathing sounded loud in his ears. He squeezed Hercules' wrist until he felt the bones move against each other, but still he could feel no pulse.
Despairing, Iolaus threw himself onto Hercules' still form. Hercules still felt as warm as he had on all the cold nights when Iolaus had shared his blankets, but Iolaus couldn't hear his heart beat and the broad chest under his cheek did not move at all. Remembering one of Cheiron's lessons, he knelt beside his friend again and gently tipped his head back, then sealed his mouth with his own in a desperate kiss, breathing for both of them until his lungs screamed for air.
When Iolaus finally sat up, black spots swam in front of his eyes and he swayed from side to side. Almost he let the blackness take him; it would be so easy to give in, to lie down beside his heart's brother and hope never to wake again into a world that now held only pain. But Hercules had never given up on him so easily. He would not shame that trust, so he took deep breaths instead until the faint passed.
:covers her face in embarrassment after rereading that last paragraph:
Where this story was going: The vaguely formed idea for this story was that Hercules had stumbled into (or been directed toward) a pocket time bubble - a place where time moves very very slowly, and that a god can use to keeps things that he doesn't want to have rot away or turn to dust over the centuries. Iolaus has to find out what's going on and how to get Hercules out of his slow-time state.
Why I stopped: I abandoned it after I was doing further plot notes and realized that I really didn't want to do a story in which Hercules spends the entire time playing corpsicle. I have much more fun with the guys when they're both in the story.
I like the bickering, though, and I may lift that to use in another story. Bickering always amuses me. *g*
no subject
Re:
It occurs to me that the 'pocket in time' idea owes much to Pythia's 'On Ice', where Iolaus is frozen in time for centuries. Not that I borrowed that deliberately, but the image must've stuck in my head.
Re: unfinished story
Barbara
Re: unfinished story
no subject
Yay, someone else who shares my kibbitzing-kink. *g*